In Due Time
by ruth baulding
Summary: Another variation on a perennial theme: in light of another Padawan's failure, Qui Gon Jinn wonders whether his apprentice is ready to face the Trials.  Angst, mush, and a fine spattering of humor.


**In Due Time**

* * *

><p>Qui Gon Jinn drew in a deep steadying breath.<p>

Was the Force telling him that the moment had come? That the future was suddenly, irrevocably the now?

Perhaps he should make the fateful decision. Perhaps the time had come.

He watched the saber duel play itself out, a flawless dance of blue and green light carving its way across the dojo floor, a graceful duet of power and speed. Anoon Bondara was as fast and accurate, as cunning and relentless as ever. And yet, something had changed. He was, for all intents and purposes, fighting an equal, this supposed "lesson" nothing more or less than an evenly matched sparring session, a dazzling spectacle for the observer, a delightful entertainment for the participants. The swordsmaster had little left to teach his opponent – and so, according to the ageless law of passing time and the cycle of life, he now began to learn a few things himself.

But not before he dished out one last lesson; struggling out of a bind, a stalemate in which both men – about the same height, about the same weight, both compact and wiry of frame- strained and snarled laughingly, two sets of teeth bared in a mutual grin of combative pleasure, he swiftly and quite unexpectedly reversed grip and slammed the pommel of his saber into his foe's face, sending him tumbling backward with a loud grunt of pain.

It was the sheerest acrobatic skill that saved the victim of this underhanded tactic from the victor's sweeping downward strike, and the sheerest brilliance that enabled him to return the favor in the form of an almost aggressive Form II strike, a tight spiraling slash that neatly disarmed the Temple's respected swordsmaster and brought the bout to an abrupt conclusion.

The winner's saber hissed as it deactivated, the thrumming line of sapphire flame disappearing back into its hilt as the young Jedi made a deep and respectful bow to Anoon Bondara. The grey-haired warrior returned the gesture, and summoned his fallen weapon's hilt back into his hand. Qui Gon, watching impassively from the tiered benches set against one of the dojo's walls, kept his hands thrust into opposite sleeves and pressed his folded arms tighter against his chest. Dear Force…. if this were any indication, then the time had indeed come.

"Well, Master Jinn," the graying master addressed him, striding across the polished floorboards and propping one foot upon the lowest bench, "It is always a great honor when a student has advanced far enough to humiliate me. I congratulate both of you."

Qui Gon chuckled a little. "By which you mean, that my turn is next and you will watch with enthusiasm."

Anoon Bondara's dark eyes sparkled with humor as he nodded and excused himself to the shower room, leaving master and apprentice alone in the now quiet sparring arena.

"He could easily have won the match," Obi Wan observed. "I would not describe his loss as humiliating."

Qui Gon unfolded his arms and leaned forward. "Obi Wan," he chided. "You're a mess." Blood ran freely from the young Jedi's nose, a red rivulet trickling down his chin and onto his neck. Startled, the Padawan hastily wiped at his skin, eyebrows lifting in disapproval as his fingers came away bright crimson.

"Blast it." He glanced about, looking for a towel, and then settled for his already damp tunic-sleeve. This only made matters worse, and somehow the long braid dangling at his shoulder managed to get implicated in the general disaster. The Force eddied with his mounting annoyance at this uncivilized state of affairs.

Perhaps it was not the time after all. Qui Gon felt the vise around his heart ease a trifle. "Padawan, you are ridiculous. Lie down."

Visibly peeved, but all too glad to be off his feet after the hour-long session with Anoon Bondara, Obi Wan flopped elegantly onto his back along the lower bench's length. Qui Gon placed two fingers against the bridge of his nose and used the Force to quickly staunch the flow of blood. "The lesson being…"

"Not to let Master Bondara under your guard," Obi Wan supplied thickly.

"Hm. To get to the _root_ of a problem directly, rather than dithering over its trifling effects," Qui Gon corrected him.

A familiar groove appeared between Obi Wan's brows. "I wasn't _dithering,"_ he objected. "That is reserved for doddering old masters who lose their composure at the sight of a little blood."

The older man's eyes narrowed. "Oh? If you weren't so anemic from blood loss right now, I would demand, say, two hundred push-ups as penance for that bit of impudence."

"The very thought makes me feel faint," his apprentice dead-panned.

Qui Gon placed a boot against his side and very firmly pushed him off the bench.

* * *

><p>But the disturbing question was fated to resurface; during the midday meal, as Qui Gon sat discussing technical aspects of their last diplomatic mission with his apprentice, they were joined unexpectedly by Master Torus Havilon.<p>

Obi Wan fell instantly silent and retreated into the blank anonymity of polite reserve. Qui Gon greeted the newcomer politely.

"Master Jinn. I wonder if I might importune you at some time in the near future. I intend to accept a journey mission assignment in the Mid Rim, and would like your opinion on the political situation in the Xolinthi controlled regions."

"Of course," Qui Gon readily agreed. Obi Wan kept his eyes down, absorbed in the fascinating texture of his own cloak's fabric.

Master Havilon sighed. "I intend to leave as soon as possible. Coruscant has lost some of its charm, I fear."

The two masters exchanged a sympathetic look. The Padawan shifted uneasily. "Master, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment."

The untruth was startling – a grave departure from Obi Wan's habitual honesty and the rule of absolute openness between master and student. But Qui Gon perceived his distress and merely nodded. They would speak later.

When the young man had beaten his hasty retreat, Torus Havilon leaned back in his seat, a wistful expression on his face. "You are a fortunate man, Qui Gon," he mused. "How long have you had your current Padawan?"

_Nine years_. _A lifetime._ "Too long, I sometimes think," he jested.

The other Jedi shook his head gravely. "You will think otherwise when he moves on."

Was that the voice of the Force, prompting him to make the fateful decision? Hinting that he harbored an inappropriate attachment, one which he must move past if he was to preserve the good of both individuals involved? Was Obi Wan ready to move on…already?

He pushed the irksome thought away. "I was sorry to hear about Ky," he offered.

But Torus Havilon merely spread his hands out, palms upward. "It is the will of the Force," he said. "It is for the best. To think otherwise would be to question the foundation of all our traditions, and the wisdom of millennia. I may…grieve…but that does not change the truth of the matter."

Qui Gon felt the vise around his heart return, in full measure, squeezing away breath. _Xanatos. _ But Ky Shinshee, Havilon's Padawan – former Padawan – was not Xanatos. Nor was he Obi Wan. He needed to focus.

"You are a wiser man than I," he answered quietly.

"Perhaps," his companion replied, with a wry twist of the mouth. "But as I said, you are the more blessed of us two."

And what could he say to that? They both turned their heads, in unconscious synchrony, toward the broad exit where ObI Wan had disappeared a minute earlier.

"I would be happy to discuss the Mid Rim problem with you at your convenience," Qui Gon said at last. "Excuse me."

Torus Havilon bid him farewell with a small half-bow.

* * *

><p>It was not difficult to hunt down his apprentice; after all, nine years spent together did result in a certain familiarity with the other's favorite haunts and corresponding moods. Pensive and melancholy Obi Wan could be found, as a rule, wandering the lower footpaths in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, the narrow and less-groomed trails which circumscribed the Temple's indoor arboretum. Here the vegetation grew tall, clawing its way up the sloping outer walls of the vast room, and the paths were perpetually damp with soft dew, moisture which was shrouded from the overhead illumination banks by the curve of the protective enclosure. The Force eddied more slowly here, where the riot of life lapped against its artificial shores, and where fewer sentient intelligences trespassed on the serenity of green growth and expansion.<p>

Qui Gon started on the path in a counterclockwise direction, and intercepted his Padawan near the yarbanna tree grotto in the southern corner.

"Obi Wan." He brought the young man up short with the unspoken command. Blue eyes studied him warily, as though he might bite.

"Master." Mental shields crept into place – stealthily, almost ashamedly. Qui Gon noticed the subtle dimming of his student's presence, but did not remark upon it. He knew from long experience that a frontal assault upon Obi Wan's convoluted personal feelings would only result in staggering resistance, and further estrangement. He pointed to the artfully piled boulders, the slabs of polished stone which formed natural tiers beneath the trees. They sat together, crossing their legs beneath them in meditation posture.

"Master Havilon is at peace with recent events," Qui Gon informed his apprentice, keeping his gaze carefully trained on the descending columns of light playing over the garden paths beyond. "You should be too."

"Yes, master." The perfect answer – perfectly pitched, perfectly enunciated, perfectly empty of true conviction. Qui Gon sighed, let his gaze follow the golden shaft upward to its source, high overhead.

"I sense that you have yet again found a way to make someone else's failings your own," he observed.

Had Obi Wan been younger, he would have squirmed on the spot. As it was, Qui Gon barely heard the long exhalation of pent-up breath. "What will happen to Ky?" the Padawan asked quietly.

"That is not our concern," the older man responded. "But as you know, he will be reassigned…if he chooses to accept the position offered him. If not, then the Council will see that his future is prudentially arranged. Nobody here wishes him ill. Quite the opposite."

Obi Wan swallowed. Another wall invisibly settled between them, a protective veil closing off his thoughts from his master. "I know," he said.

Qui Gon waited patiently. Time and wisdom were on his side.

"Master…do you think it would be appropriate for me to speak to Ky? Privately?"

And yet Obi Wan still managed to surprise him. When he had recovered his wits, he turned to study his apprentice's profile. The young Jedi was scowling at the delicate yarbanna seedling sprouting from beneath the shelter of the rocks. It seemed as though the soft green shoot ought to wither and crumble beneath the onslaught, but it did not.

"Appropriate, yes. Wise? No. I was not aware that Ky Shinshee and you shared an…accord. Indeed, I was under the opposite impression."

One corner of Obi Wan's mouth lifted in a bitterly wry smile. "That is my fault," he decided, without pause for reflection. "But I..I still need to speak with him. Before he goes."

Qui Gon released his own pent-up breath. There were some lessons he could not teach. And Obi Wan was more than old enough to exercise his own discretion in such matters. "You must do what you think is right, of course," he replied.

The Padawan nodded, gravely, and flicked his gaze sideways to meet Qui Gon's. "Yes, master." He rose, then, and made his bow before striding determinedly away down the dew-mottled path. Qui Gon watched him go, then sat awhile unmoving. He touched the yarbanna seedling – the mirror and echo of the graceful tree drooping with fruit-weighted boughs above- and smiled as it quivered beneath his curious prodding. The impulse to uproot it from its precarious place beneath the boulders and transplant it to a more secure location was momentarily overpowering….but the seedling, like other young growing things, had to allowed its own struggle for life and existence. And besides, what harm could come to it here in the protected enclave of the Temple?

* * *

><p>The door slid open before Obi Wan could touch the chime.<p>

"Yes?" Ky Shinshee's voice was irritated, and gruff. The dark-haired youth approached the doorframe, glowered at the would-be intruder. "Kenobi," he said, in surprise. "What do you want?"

"Ah…may I come in?"

Permission was granted, a terse jerk of Ky's head. No learner's braid swung behind his right ear; the nerftail had been severed as well. Obi Wan wondered whether Ky had made the simple changes himself, or whether…he had been _shorn_, his symbols of rank taken from him. Perhaps…publicly? A cold weight settled in his gut as he gazed at the disgraced youth.

"What?" Ky demanded, all effort at courtesy abandoned with his braid. His clothing was neat and simple, but he did not wear tabards over his tunic, nor did a 'saber hang at his side. Despite his height and broad shoulders, he seemed…diminished.

"I came to wish you well." Obi Wan willed the Force to bear his sincerity across the space between them. Ky's dark eyes glimmered faintly.

"Gloating is not worthy of a Jedi," Ky mocked him. "You can leave."

"Please," Obi Wan objected. "I wished to apologize to you as well."

That had Shinshee's attention. He folded his arms across his chest and released a long breath. "For what?"

It took some effort to plough onward, but his heart was heavy with the unspoken sentiment, and the Force told him that this would be his last chance to speak with Ky Shinshee, possibly forever. The galaxy was a large place, and life unpredictable. "I wish to apologize to you, for any words or actions on my part which were petty or resentful. I would like there to be peace between us."

"For your sake or for mine?" Ky asked shrewdly. "I can't give you peace if the Force won't let you have it. And we cannot change the past."

Obi Wan suppressed a renewed flare of annoyance with the Padawan – no, ex-Padawan - standing before him. He tried again. "I …I realize my mistake, now. I lacked compassion and respect for you. I would like to part without acrimony. I _do _ wish you well, Ky."

Years of training did instill certain habits. It was unthinkable to refuse a direct apology, to ignore such a humble plea for pardon. But Ky, it would seem, had dispensed with a decade of training when he relinquished his 'saber. "Then let's hope you get your wish," the dark haired youth replied, finally, his mouth set in a straight and displeased line. "You always seem to get what you want, Kenobi."

There was a tense silence. Old resentment stirred between them like dust rasied by an idle wind. Obi Wan stood firm, not succumbing to the temptation. If only Ky could hear him….

The slightly older youth paced across the bare room, threw a datareader into the small satchel of belongings which sat open upon the stripped sleep mattress. "I'm not joining the Ag-Corps," he announced suddenly. "I would rather take my chances in the wide world."

"Will you seek out your birth family?"

Ky stared at him, shocked by the question, by the forwardness of the inquiry. "No," he answered. "I don't know them. And they have no interest in a rejected Jedi."

"The Jedi haven't _rejected_ you," Obi Wan protested, the formulaic words slipping out before he could rein in his tongue.

He flinched at the acid look Ky threw in his direction. "You're a perfect yes-man, Kenobi," the latter half-snarled. "But that won't help you during your Trials. Nothing will."

The cold weight exploded into full-fledged dread, a melting sensation at his core.

"That's right," Ky continued, stony face finally registering a flush of color as he closed the space between them in three short strides. "Do you know what it means to be _broken?_ That's what your master has been preparing you for all these years. You long to face the test, don't you? But has he ever told you what it will be? Have you ever imagined? " His dark gaze took in Obi Wan's braid, the saber hilt hanging at his side. "Don't wish for it too soon, Kenobi," he advised in a low murmur. "You don't know what lies ahead on that path."

Obi Wan swallowed, looked at Ky, at his own future. Pity threatened to overwhelm him. "I'm sorry," he rasped, heart aching for the lonely, angry, _broken_ young man who stood glaring at him with such envy and hurt in his face. "I 'm truly sorry, Ky. May the Force be with you."

And he fled. Before he proved to Ky that he, too, was completely unworthy of the Order.

* * *

><p>Qui Gon watched the sun weep its failing radiance into the sky. Columns of polluted smoke curled up from the distant industrial sector, fingers clawing at a tear-stained face. Coruscant sprawled below, indifferent to the grief-stricken firmament.<p>

Obi Wan stood beside him, as always, hands gripping the balcony railing until his knuckles stood out white against skin painted gold and red by the sunset's overflowing hues. He was a study in sharp, slashing lines: a hard furrow deepening between his brows, the vertical line permanently carved in his chin, the crisp intersection of tunics where they crossed over his chest in three distinct layers - a trifold valley concealing the heart beneath – and the rigid sweep of his posture. His shadow fell harsh and elongated into sharp caricature behind him.

Qui Gon turned, leaning his weight against the low wall behind him. "Shall we do this the easy way, or must it come down to aggressive negotiations?"

His apprentice raised his shoulders in an elegant shrug. "I won't start a fight with you, master…but I am certainly able to _finish_ one."

The older man's mouth quirked slightly. "If I thought I could _beat_ sense into you, Obi Wan, you would be very sore and bruised indeed."

The jest earned him a tiny snort of humorous acknowledgment, but Obi Wan continued to gaze out into the deepening shadows. The sun dipped below the ragged duracrete skyline, leaving only the frenetic buzz of air traffic to illumine the geometric wasteland stretching in all directions.

"Ky is not the first Jedi Padawan to fail his Trials," Qui Gon ventured at length.

His apprentice went still. "I know, master."

"Nor will he be the last. It should not disturb you so. If Ky was not meant to be a Knight, then why should you rebel against what is the will of the Force?"

Obi Wan turned, with a swiftness bespeaking battle tension. "I do not question the will of the Force," he said, tautly. "Or the wisdom of the Council."

Qui Gon remained implacably calm. "Then what is that you question, young one?"

His Padawan turned his face away, the long braid swinging with the sudden motion.

"Yourself?"

"I cannot help but see my own reflection in Ky, master. With all due respect."

The night promised to be chill, but they did not move from their vantage point high over the city. "That is often the way with a rival. Bruck Chun was no different."

He heard the indrawn hiss of breath. Some topics were mutually recognized as painful, but nothing was strictly forbidden to a master, when he had a need to teach. There was a long silence in which Qui Gon watched tiny lights in the gleaming white walls of the Temple flicker in or out of existence, as those who dwelt within entered or left loftier chambers. The southern spire glistened like a proud torch, a beacon light amid inky darkness.

"I spoke with Ky today," Obi Wan offered, at long last. "He was not…he did not accept my apology – for whatever ill feeling might have existed in the past. I feel pity for him, master, though I know I should not. I cannot help it."

Qui Gon nodded. He had suspected as much. "Your compassion is not misplaced. You may understand that this is the better path for him objectively, while still feeling pity for his subjective pain. Until he grows to understand the rightness of the decision himself, he will suffer. And there is nothing wrong with wishing to alleviate that suffering."

The young Jedi nodded, serious as ever. "Yes, master."

But the mental shields separating them remained firmly in place, as solid and formidable as the pale walls of the Temple itself. Qui Gon laid a hand on his student's shoulder. "There is more. Tell me now."

Muscles tensed beneath his fingers, then gradually loosened. The invisible veils melted away, reluctantly, to reveal a seething unrest. The Force swelled and subsided, an ocean rising and falling with Obi Wan's controlled breaths. "Ky said that the Trials are designed to break the one who faces them. Is that true?"

The question was a challenge, an accusation, and a plea. Qui Gon's hand tightened imperceptibly, moved to rest between the Padawan's shoulder blades. He considered his words carefully. "Yes," he answered, after a heavy pause. "And no. Much depends on your point of view."

"And the nature of the Trials…that is the master's choice?"

A deep breath. Such a sense of dread and betrayal…what had Ky said earlier? "Sometimes," Qui Gon sighed. "And sometimes it is the Force itself which shows the way. I cannot tell you more. You must understand this."

The restive ocean settled between them, to be replaced by melancholy. Obi Wan glanced upward at him, frowning. "Yes, master." He looked away again, features silhouetted by the diffuse glow of the city below. Something gleamed wetly on his face.

Alarmed, Qui Gon swept the moisture away with two fingers – which came away dark and slick. "You're bleeding again," he observed.

The sorrow-laden moment dissolved into one of pure childish annoyance. "_Blast_ it," Obi Wan muttered, drawing the back of a hand across his face. "Master Bondara is a _gundark."_ Bright red droplets spattered on his clean tunic.

"Ah, my misguided Padawan. I cannot even trust you to keep your own nose clean. What shall I ever do with you?" He led the way indoors. "Off you go – I'll catch up shortly."

Obi Wan sacrificed the hem of his robe sleeve to the budding emergency and retreated in the direction of their quarters at a smart clip. Qui Gon watched him go, a bittersweet smile pulling at his mouth. He had been saved by the Force, from fully answering that last question. Because the Trials were meant to break a Padawan, if possible. What better test of true devotion to the Force than that which struck at the tenderest place, the center of a youthful being's self? Weakness and strength were one thing; service as a Jedi demanded _absolute_ sacrifice. And he knew, he hated knowing, that when Obi Wan's time came to face the Trials, it was his heart that must break.

He couldn't bring himself to do it. Not yet. Neither of them was ready to face that test. And so he made the fateful decision.

It wasn't the time. The uncertain, ever-changing future was not the present moment.

He released a deep, steadying breath, and followed after his Padawan.


End file.
